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It strikes me as ironic that I’m the only one who’s still here. Me, who was never supposed to return in the first place. But it’s more than just work on the house that’s kept me here. I want to remain in Bartleby until all the legal issues are over.
That should come next week, when my mother is going to be sentenced for her role in covering up the death of Petra Ditmer.
It turns out that what she told me in the kitchen was wrong. Shecouldstop me from throwing my life away—by confessing to Petra Ditmer’s murder, which is exactly what she tried to do immediately after leaving me alone in Baneberry Hall. While Marta Carver was rubbing my back and telling me how she accidentally killed Petra, my mother was talking to Chief Alcott.
After hearing my mother’s story, the chief came by the house to also bring me in for questioning. Instead, she discovered Elsa Ditmer, lost once more in an Alzheimer’s haze in the parlor, and Marta and me splayed out in front of the stairs.
Marta was dead.
I was on my way.
After having my stomach pumped, my fluids restored, and a fractured wrist bandaged, I told Chief Alcott everything. I even included the part about seeing Petra Ditmer right as Elsa pushed Marta down the stairs, although everyone agrees I was hallucinating.
I hope not.
I’d like to think it was Petra’s spirit, helping her mother save my life.
Once Chief Alcott got everyone’s story straight, it was time for my mother’s formal confession. In July, she pleaded guilty to one count of concealing a dead body. Now it’s up to the judge to decide her punishment. Although she could get up to three years in prison, her attorneys think she could escape jail time altogether.
Whenever I ask my mother if she’s scared about possibly going to prison, she tells me no.
“Even though we did what we thought was right, it was still wrong,” she said on the phone yesterday. “I’ll serve whatever time the judge sees fit. All I care about is that you forgive me.”
I do.
I forgave her the moment I heard she confessed to what we both had thought was my crime. I wouldn’t have let her go through with it, of course. If I had been the one to kill Petra, I would have admitted it. But the fact that my mother was willing to sacrifice herself like that told me I had been wrong about her. She wasn’t a monster. Neither was my father. They were just two people thrust into an unfathomable situation who were terrified about what might happen to their daughter.
It doesn’t excuse what they did.
But it sure does explain it.
Everything, it turned out, was for me. As for who that is, I am still figuring it out.
That the relationship between my mother and me is the best it’sever been is another irony. She likes to joke that all it took for us to get along was an impending prison sentence. Yet I still can’t help but think about what might have been. So many years have been wasted on cover-ups and lies. Now all we can do is make up for lost time. I only wish I’d been able to do the same thing with my father. But I hope he knows, wherever he is now, that he has also been forgiven.
My mother and Carl have been in Bartleby a lot these past few months, for reasons relating to her criminal case. Although she’s now fine with spending an afternoon in Baneberry Hall, she refuses to stay the night. She and Carl always book a room at the Two Pines, which, in my mind at least, is probably worse than jail.
When they’re not in town, I spend my nights roaming Baneberry Hall, thinking about all that’s happened within these walls. Sometimes, I just sit and wait for Petra to appear. Unlike everyone else, I don’t think she was a hallucination brought on by ingested baneberries and approaching death.
I believe she was real, and I’d like to see her one more time before I leave.
I want to tell her I’m sorry, and to thank her for coming to my rescue.
Maybe she already knows these things. Maybe she’s finally at peace.
Right now, I’m in the study on the third floor, standing at my father’s desk. All that sits here now is his old typewriter. I’ve spent several evenings in front of it, my fingers tripping over the keys, debating whether or not I should actually press a few of them.
Tonight, I decide that the time is right. Just because my interior design includes no traces of Baneberry Hall’s story doesn’t mean I won’t tell it. In fact, the same publisher who put out the Book all those years ago has already contacted me about writing a sequel.
At first I declined, despite the sizable advance they offered. I’m a designer, not a writer. But now I’m thinking about taking them up ontheir offer. Not for the money, although that will keep Allie and me in business for years to come.
I want to do it because it’s what I think my father would have wanted.
I am, after all, his daughter.